


Tranquility

by Orockthro



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Adventuring, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Somnophilia, Jaskier is a kinky fuck and he loves it, Kink Exploration, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Mid-Season, PWP, Witcher magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 13:35:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22496947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orockthro/pseuds/Orockthro
Summary: “That sign you did, the triangle. The one where the men just... stopped.” Even saying it his face heats up. “You made that sign and they did whatever you wanted.”“Not whatever. It made them... suggestible.” He grunts. “Not actual mind control.”Jaskier wonders if he can blame the fire for the heat on his face if he moves closer, so he does so. Only that moves him closer to Geralt, too.“Could you... do it to me?”(Or, Jaskier finds Geralt's magic intoxicating.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 49
Kudos: 1411





	Tranquility

**Author's Note:**

> So hello Witcher fandom. I tried to avoid you. HA. That lasted long.

Jaskier has been traveling with the witcher on and off for going on four years now. He finds Geralt, travels with him for a month or three, and then they part ways again. It’s casual and exciting all at once, and Jaskier has not grown tired of it. So here he is, walking beside Roach while the witcher sits astride her, cursing the foul mud that has not only caked his boots but started to seep in towards his feet as well, when Geralt sits back and urges Roach to a halt. 

“Geralt, what--”

“Shh.”

Jaskier bristles, because being told to  _ shush _ by the witcher formerly known as the Butcher of Blaviken is rude beyond words. After all, it’s only thanks to Jaskier that he is occasionally not spit on anymore when they waltz into towns looking for a brief respite from the horrid damp of the unpleasantness that is Velen’s swampy ass. 

But Geralt has that look-- the look of  _ I sense something with my not-at-all creepy cat eyes and it might eat us _ so Jaskier swallows down his indignation and only lets loose a single “harumph” which is quite tame indeed. 

Tame, but apparently enough to let the whatever-it-is know about their location. 

Geralt swears a vibrant, “fuck,” and swings down off of Roach’s back in one smooth motion, his silver sword singing free from the scabbard by the time his feet have squelched into the muddy ground. He shoves Jaskier back with a quick drawn triangle in the air and then Jaskier is being pushed back with a force of magic to land gracelessly behind a stump and set resolutely out of the way. 

He shoots up as soon as he gets his breath back and watches the battle, sucking in details for poems and songs because, well, he is who he is. 

But even after Geralt has dismembered the whatever-it-was and burned something or other to make it stay gone, the one thing that Jaskier remembers is the way Geralt’s strong fingers shaped that triangle, and the way it felt to have the wind taken from him. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier says.

Three months later, and Jaskier has come and gone from Geralt’s company twice now. But this time they’re in some godforsaken little town that is rude enough to call itself a town to begin with close to Cintra’s borders. There’s a re-purposed barn that the locals call a tavern, complete with squared off hay bales for seats and the stench of moldering wheat pulp under their feet. 

He plays a few tunes, but no one is paying him any attention, let alone any coin, so he just lets his fingers meander the lute’s neck, plucking idly through various mellodies he knows while Geralt tends to Roach out in the drizzle. 

It’s a pleasant part of their arrangement, that while Jaskier brings no actual talents to the witching part of the hunts, he neither has to deal with the blood and gore that Geralt seems so immune to. Which is deeply fortunate, because Jaskier would never get it out of his silks, let alone out from beneath his manicured fingernails. Outside living might take a toll, but he’s damned if it’s taken his care for his appearance. 

He picks out a tune that’s a bit melancholy, relishing in the chance to simply explore the music rather than sing for his supper. Geralt’s contract paid enough for a room, two hot meals, and a repair to his armor that Jaskier’s deft hand with a needle couldn’t quite make good without an expert’s touch. 

So it’s because he’s feeling full and warm and content that he doesn’t notice the two men sidle up next to him until they’re so far into his personal space that he can smell them better than he can see them.

“Why hello, gentlemen, ah, anything I can do for you this fine evening?”

One of them is wearing leather that is so unwashed it’s conformed to his skin and appears to be... fused... on. It’s not a delightful turn to his otherwise delightful evening. Where is his wine, anyhow? He reaches past the two men for his drink, only to have his hand pushed away and his drink upturned onto the hay.

“What the hell!”

“What are you at the mutant doing still here, huh? You got all our coin already, what else do you want?” The other man, the one wearing woven garments that, while not clean, seem to have been washed this century, seems to be the talker of the two, and he punctuates his words with a quick shove of a hand against Jaskier’s chest. 

“Oh, you  _ don’t  _ want us to spend back some of that coin into your community? You’d rather us take it and leave you even more destitute, you complete idiot?” 

Jaskier would be the first to admit that often his tongue gets ahead of his senses. And he never seems to realize it until said tongue has burst free and it’s far too late to pretend. Well. It’s usually his tongue. He’s a man of pleasure, after all. But the concept remains true. 

“Who are you calling an idiot?” 

And Jaskier  _ knows _ he should say something simpering like, oh so sorry dear sir, meant nothing of it, too much drink, we’ll just be off now, please don’t slit my throat. Or better yet, oh kind sir, please allow me to apologize and humble and humiliate myself upon your shoes.

Instead, he says, “You, obviously, were you not paying attention? I can repeat, if needed.”

A fist raises up, and Jaskier does the only thing he can think of in the blur of fear and adrenaline-- he twists to protect his lute from the barrage of fists that are just a split second from descending. 

But then there are the footsteps he’ll recognize anywhere by this point. Wet from being out in the horrible mud while Jaskier’s been inside and dry, so they squelch a bit. But Geratl’s obviously leaning his weight in, because the footfalls are heavy and menacing and Jaskier’s never been quite so happy to hear him as now. Well, that and the half dozen other times Geralt’s pulled him out of similar situations. 

“Ah, Geralt, so happy you’re here, could you just tell these men that we’re going to be leaving just as soon as we rest up?”

He can’t actually  _ see _ Geralt from where he’s half crouched on a hay bale, trying to protect his lute and face from the two men who stink up the space. But he knows when they realize Geralt is not just some man, but in fact the mutant who killed the noonwraith that’d been plaguing them for the last year, horrifying creature that she was. Jaskier almost pumps his fist in delight when they back off an inch, if only because it affords him a clean breath of air to suck in. 

“Time to go home, gentlemen,” Geralt says, and gods Jaskier wishes he could bottle that masculinity. He could make a fortune. 

“Don’t think so, mutant. Think you and your bardling need to leave. Now. You got our money, now you’re drinking all our drink, too.”

“Paying for it.”

“ _ With our fucking money.” _

And then Geralt draws a little triangle in the air, different from the one a while back, and Jaskier watches, mesmerized, as the two men become docile and listless. They slouch over and when Geralt says, “go home and sleep it off,” they tottle off, presumably to do just that.

Jaskier stares at him, speechless. Until Geralt says, “What, no thank you for saving you? Again?”

Jaskier clears his throat and tamps down the heat that’s rushing through him. He knows himself very well, which means he also cannot pretend that the wine has made him flush. “Yes. Yes, well. Thank you. Again.”

They sleep in the hay outside of town, worried that they’ll be murdered in their beds, and set off as soon as dawn breaks. 

Jaskier intends to bring up the magic signs later on in their journey, maybe in a week or two. But he’s not a patient man, and he finds himself, that next morning, saying, “Geralt, you’ve got magic hands. Why didn’t you tell me you have magic hands.”

Geralt, of course, growls like the animal he pretends to be. “Never say that again.”

“But think of the songs!”

“No, Jaskier.”

And for the moment that’s it. 

But Jaskier can’t stop thinking about it. About the contained violence of the first taste he’d gotten, that not-quite-gentle push when Geralt’s hand glowed a faint blue. And then, of course, the white of his fingertips when he’d reached over and saved Jaskier from a split lip and a split lute with a whisper and a gesture of those same hands. 

That evening when the light fades and they’re setting up for a long and mediumly unpleasant night on uncomfortable tree roots and with a rabbit stew that is only rabbit in boiled pond water water, Jaskier can’t help himself any longer. Truly, he’s never been good at that anyhow, so it’s unsurprising, but it’s still once again his tongue slipping away from him.

“That sign you did, the triangle. The magic one.”

“The push,” Geralt says, and nods as he feeds the fire another damp stick that smokes rather than burns. 

“Ah, yes, that one. But the other one, too. The one where the men just... stopped.” Even saying it his face heats up. “You made that sign and they did whatever you wanted.”

“Not whatever. It made them... suggestible.” He grunts. “Not actual mind control.” 

Jaskier wonders if he can blame the fire for the heat on his face if he moves closer, so he does so. Only that moves him closer to Geralt, too. 

“Can you do it to anyone?”

Geralt shrugs. “Yes. Works differently on different people. But yes.” Then he turns his yellow eyes to Jaskier and they bore into him and whatever flush was on his face burns even brighter. He’s pretty sure Geralt can hear his heart thudding in his chest.

“Could you... do it to me?”

“Not going to hurt you, bard.”

Jaskier’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. “Even if I wanted it?”

Geralt rolls his eyes at him. “Go to sleep. Get laid in the next town. And stop asking for what you don’t really want.”

Jaskier does get laid in the next town, by a pretty woman and her husband both. And while it’s perfectly lovely and leaves him no complaints-- they even feed him wine, Vusella holding the goblet to his lips while her husband whose name he doesn’t remember holds his head and his eyes all but roll in their strength over him. 

And surely it’s nice. As is the soft bed away from the stench of the world. And so, too, is the coin that gets placed heavy in his hat when he plays a few classics from his song list while Geralt goes off and scrounges up witching work. 

But the desire, the urge to have Geralt’s hands glow white and take his mind away from him, just for a little bit, never leaves. 

He goes off after this, heads back to civilization for a few months and earns his way into a pair of silks that aren’t stained with marsh and blood and sweat, and then, when he’s bored again, he heads southeast, where he hears tales of a witcher, a white haired one. Because for as much as Jaskier needs to find his freedom away from Geralt, he also needs, very much, to go back to him. 

He smiles as he walks briskly down the path towards the smoke of the fire he suspects belongs to Geralt. He’s a bird, in so many ways. Flitting off, but never far, Jaskier the bard... 

And it’s when he’s distracted like this that he finds himself pushed with his back against a tree with Geralt’s hand at his neck. And he has a... probably incorrect reaction to that, which is noticed by both of them as the new silk of his trousers is tested. 

“Jaskier.”

“Geralt. Been awhile.”

“Hm.”

“I brought us chicken eggs.”

“Hm.”

And then things are back to normal. Boring old, pleasant normal. And Jaskier hates it. He ought to like it. He’s liked it just fine for the last five years, this comfort and give and take they have with one another, never getting too close. But tonight, Jaskier sprawled out on the spare bedroll that Geralt keeps for him on Roach’s pack, it isn’t enough.

And Jaskier has never been a man to settle. 

“Geralt,” he says. The fire is burned down to embers, and he’s pretty sure Geralt is pretending to sleep, not actually in one of his strange meditative trances. 

“Geralt, I want you to do it to me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Geralt grunts and he can hear the man get up and wander the campsite. The damn man can see in the dark whereas Jaskeir must be content to listen and feel his heart race at the knowledge that Geralt could be anywhere. He could be behind him right now. He could reach out and touch him and Jaskier wouldn’t be able to do anything about it...

“Why do you want it?” Jaskier’s pulled from his dozing and starts, just a little bit, by the voice next to his ear, so close he can feel Geralt’s breath on his skin.

“Just do.” He shrugs, which he’s sure Geralt will somehow be able to hear, because damn the man. “Do you never want to feel powerless?”

“No.”

Jaskier laughs a little, because of course. Geralt is so predictable. “Well I do. I crave it. I’ve had lovers drug me before, and I just lay there and they do what they will...I let them do anything they want to me.”

He’s sleepy. He can easily imagine it in this moment. Geralt slipping something into food earlier and only now realizing it, falling into that twilight haze of paralytics. But he twitches a hand and the fantasy is broken. He sighs. 

“Hm.” Then, a few minutes later. “You let them do anything?”

He laughs again, because Geralt is so so predictable. It’s charming, really, as well as shocking because if Geralt is to be believed, he’s three times Jaskier’s age. “Anything.” And then, he whispers because he knows Geralt’s hearing will pick it up, “I would let you do anything, too, you know. I would let you do that little spell, and I would let you do whatever you wanted to me.”

Geralt inhales, and Jaskier realizes he’s being smelled. Not that his arousal would be hard to figure out, but he’ll take it as a compliment that it’s something that requires all the senses to appreciate. 

“I want it, Geralt...”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, and his voice is changed. Heavier. Gods how Jaskeir wishes he could capture that... “Shut up,” and then there’s a glow, a trace of a hand through the air, and Jaskier’s mind lights up with pleasure before the spell even hits because  _ Geralt is giving this to him. _

It’s not unlike being drugged, only instantaneous and even more intoxicating because of its quickness. His limbs are heavy and soft and his face is heavy and soft and his mind is heavy and soft. He goes to say, “Oh fuck yes,” but his tongue, for once in his life, is a limp thing in his mouth and all he manages to do is whimper against Geralt’s hand which is cupping his face.

He was already laying down, but his limbs spread and sprawl in ways he didn’t know was possible as his body finds new levels of limpness. He doesn’t think he could lift himself from the spell’s power even if his shirt were on fire. 

And then the ecstasy triples because Geralt is reaching out and his fingers, still glowing with whatever residual magic, untangle the ties of his tunic. His hands are big, heavy, and warm. He pulls at the fabric and Jaskier adores how gentle he is with it. It is, after all, his new silk. He’s lifted up a little bit, effortlessly, as Geralt tugs the sleeves over his heavy, useless arms and shoulders, and leaves him bare and he can feel the air on his skin and Geralt’s hands on his skin, and he’s utterly transported. He’s only brought back when Geratl settles him back onto the bedroll again, lays his arms back down against the ground, and strokes the corner of his neck where it joins his shoulder. 

“Do you like this?” 

It’s all Jaskier can do to breathe without exploding, let alone attempt to communicate anything, and so he simply huffs and squirms a little bit, shifting his hips impatiently. He’s only able to flop a little, the wonderful intoxicating weight of Geralt’s spell keeping him lulled into delicious helplessness. 

“Heh. Fine, then.”

And then the laces of his trousers are also undone, and he’s slowly, gently and sweetly, pulled free and left bare and exposed and so, so helpless as Geralt runs a hand from his collarbone slowly dragging his roughly calloused fingertips from its crest to the dip of his sternum, and then lower, to the very (very, mind you) gentle swell of his full belly, where it then rests for a moment. 

Gods, he wants Geralt to keep going. To fondle him. To move him like a doll, should he so desire. To twist him and fuck him, to press him into the ground. But he can do nothing to speed the process. In this, too, he is helpless. 

He coaxes a moan from his slack lips and then Geralt’s other hand is at his head, his knees straddling Jaskier, and he can feel his witcher’s medallion slip free of his tunic and drop onto his chest, the metal still warm from Geralt’s skin. He’s petting him, first just his hair, and then his forehead cheeks. And then his lips, tracing out their shape, and Jaskier feels he will die of arousal. 

Geralt’s hand slips behind his neck and lifts and Jaskier feels his limp body pulled up. His arms flop to the side and Geralt slips behind him, pulling him into his lap and then, finally, slipping a hand down beneath his belly to that wonderful heat pooling there,  _ finally _ touching him. 

And, surprisingly and wonderfully, he keeps a hand near Jaskier’s throat as he begins to slowly work him. The heat of his hand down around his cock is wonderful as it plays with him, but so, too, is the heat of the hand splayed posessively across his chest, Geralt’s thumb stroking his adam’s apple in time with his movements.

He doesn’t hear Geralt pull off his own trousers. Nor does the witcher seem to have any interest in entering Jaskier or pleasuring himself in any way. Instead he pulls and touches and even kisses Jaskier in the dark, while Jaskier’s body lays there, pressed against Geralt’s chest, and does nothing but breathe, offer limp and wordless whimpers, and, finally, spurt and gasp and keen as Geralt’s movements build and build and he’s unable to do anything but experience what is happening to him. 

He falls asleep after that. He doesn’t mean to. He wants to keep enjoying the feeling of Geralt holding him, the heaviness of his limbs and the way that, even if he wanted to, he couldn’t say a word. 

But he sleeps, and when he wakes he’s been re-dressed. He would think it a dream, except for the blush that flirts across Geralt’s face as he presses dry brush into the banked embers of their fire. That and the smell of sex that still lingers. 

“So,” Jaskier says, and his voice is just a little bit hoarse. “What’s for breakfast?”

“Nothing else to say?”

Jaskier beams at him. “You sly bastard, you want to hear how you did, don’t you?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It is, and you know it. You can’t pretend you’re some emotionless mutant, not with me. You want to know that it was very good and the best I ever had and how you are the manliest man, don’t you?”

“Hm.”

Jaskier smiles. “But, you know...”

And he enjoys very much, the way Geralt’s head raises, eager to hear what words will come from his lips next. 

“It was pretty good. Could use a little improvement, though.”

“What--”

“Just saying, practice makes perfect.” 

Geralt stands in a fluid, beautiful motion and hucks a skinned squirrel onto the fire whole. “Does it now?”

And Jaskier grins. 


End file.
